


Christmas Cards: 2000

by kuzibah



Series: Christmas Cards [2]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:41:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22618069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuzibah/pseuds/kuzibah
Summary: This is the second Buffy Christmas series I wrote, in 2000. These were also written for the Buffy Cross and Stake message board but by this time I had my own fanfic page at Geocities (look it up.) As with the previous series, each chapter is a short stand-alone story, although they are intended to be read as a set. To refresh your memory, this was the middle of the fifth season of "Buffy" and the second season of "Angel," and the stories take place in that timeframe, but some were rendered AU at the last moment. The chapter top notes are the same ones I posted on them at the time.
Relationships: Tara Maclay/Willow Rosenberg, Xander Harris/Anya Jenkins
Series: Christmas Cards [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627252
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	1. In the Bleak Midwinter: Willow and Tara

**Author's Note:**

> The described Solstice ritual is loosely based on ritual suggested in Starhawk’s “The Spiral Dance.” Suggested Soundtrack: Solstice IV- a Wyndham Hill Collection.

**4:43 p.m., Dec. 21st, 2000**

_This Light, which all thy gloom can banish,  
The bliss of heaven glorifies;  
When sun and moon and stars shall vanish,  
Its rays shall still illume the skies.  
This light through all eternity  
Thy heaven and all to thee shall be.  
\- from "This Night a Wondrous Revelation" (trad.) _

With a flourish, Xander inscribed the last symbol on the oak log Willow had brought and set the fine-tipped burning tool aside to cool. “How’s that,” he asked. 

Willow examined the solar symbols and nodded, smiling. “That’s perfect,” she said. “Tara will be so happy. Thank you so much.” 

Xander smiled proudly. “Anything for my favorite wiccans,” he said. 

“This will be our first Yule together,” Willow said. “And the log really is the ritual centerpiece. I just want it to be perfect for her.” 

“Well, I hope I didn’t screw it up,” Xander said. “I want the days to start getting longer again as much as the next guy.” 

“I told you, it’s perfect,” Willow said. She touched the end of the log gingerly. “Is it cool enough yet?” 

“Yes, absolutely,” Xander said. “Do you need me to carry it?” 

“Oh, no,” Willow said, “I’ve got it.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed Xander’s cheek before scooping the Yule log into her arms. “You’re the coolest,” she added. 

Xander blushed slightly. “Gotta be cool for the Yule,” he said. 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

Willow followed Tara through the woods overlooking Sunnydale campus. The blond witch moved sure-footedly over the path, even though she had only a lit candle to guide her. 

Willow followed less certainly, but then again, she had not made the journey along this path each night for the past five nights. 

“Are you all right?” Tara asked. 

“Yeah,” Willow said. “This log is just a little awkward.” 

Tara took it out of her beloved’s arms and handed her the candle. “You lead now,” she said. “It’s right between those trees.” 

Willow drew in her breath in anticipation and hurried ahead, Tara just a step behind. She pushed aside the branches of a shaggy evergreen and stepped into the clearing. 

All around her the trees were hung with oranges, apples, and lemons, and strings of berries and popcorn. The ground within had been cleared and raked, and a large white cloth was spread on the soft grass. At one end of the cloth was a low altar of stones and branches, and just beyond a fire pit lined with slate. The chest where Tara kept her magic supplies was not far away. 

“What do you think?” Tara asked. 

“Oh, Tara,” Willow breathed. “It’s beautiful.” 

Tara smiled and stepped into the clearing, placing the Yule log reverently on the altar. Willow entered more slowly, gazing about in near awe. “This must have taken hours. Days,” she said. 

Tara blushed and lowered her eyes. “I wanted it to be special,” she said. 

“Oh, it is,” Willow assured her. 

Tara stepped up to Willow and took the red-head’s hands in hers. “Are you ready,” she said. 

“Always,” Willow answered. 

Tara lowered her eyes again. “Goddess,” she began. “We call on you this night, the longest night of the year, to praise you.” 

“We affirm your life-giving powers,” Willow said. 

“We know creation moves as a wheel,” Tara said. “We welcome this time of rest as necessary for the re-emergence of vitality.” 

“And trust,” Willow said, “that out of darkness you will bring light.” 

Both women felt the power of their magic move up through them out of the earth and gasped with delight. Around them the trees Tara had so lovingly decorated were suddenly covered with thousands of tiny, magical lights, flickering and clinging to the needles like living things. 

“Oh, Tara,” Willow cried out, now breathless at the beauty around her. 

Tara gave one of her rare, delicate laughs. “I’m glad you like it,” she said. 

Willow threw her arms around the other girl’s shoulders, pulling her into an embrace. “It’s beautiful,” she said, and touched her lover’s face. “You’re beautiful.” 

And the witches fell, laughing, into one another’s arms. 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

Willow stared at the log, now glowing embers, but her eyes were focused far away. Tara was watching her, seeming to study the curve of her mouth, the play of light on her hair, the shadow of her lashes on her pale cheek when she blinked. Willow used to be uneasy with such intensity, but now she welcomed it, and returned it in kind often enough. 

“What are you thinking about,” Tara said at last. 

There was a comfortable silence before Willow answered. “Everything that’s happened to me. The past two years, I guess.” 

Tara waited patiently for Willow to continue, and at last she did. 

“I’ve changed so much since I started college. I mean, growing up on the Hellmouth was strange enough, but deciding to study magic has just been unbelievable. And then meeting you…” Willow turned and looked into Tara’s eyes at this. “I feel like I’ve found a part of myself I never even knew was lost. I mean, I’ve gone from Willow Rosenberg: nice Jewish girl, honor society, debate club, and yearbook staff, to Willow: warrior-goddess and kick-ass wiccan.” 

Tara smiled slowly. “Willow: beloved of Tara,” she said. 

“Yes,” Willow said, taking the blonde’s hands in her own. “Yes. You are the best part of my life now. I cherish everything about you.” 

Willow looked around her, at the eldritch light still glimmering in the trees. “So many people think of this time of year as a time for finding light in the darkness. Like Chanukah. The festival of lights, the miracle of the light that lasted eight days.” 

“And Christmas,” Tara said. “They call Jesus the light of the world.” 

“How were you raised,” Willow asked suddenly. “You never talk about it. Well, after meeting your dad I can see why…”

“No,” Tara said. “It wasn’t all bad. We went to the Elm Creek Bible Church.” 

“What was it like?” 

“Small,” Tara said. “But very devout. It was a… Pentecostal church. Like in the movies. The preachers would yell about sin and hellfire and everyone would shout ‘Amen.”” 

“Sounds scary.” 

“Sometimes it was,” Tara agreed. “But the year before I left we had a new preacher, Reverend Cade. He talked about sin, of course, but he talked mostly about how we were all God’s children, and that He loved and cared for us like a father.” Tara gave a small, secret smile. “Anyway, it got so whenever he said ‘father,’ I thought ‘mother.’” 

Willow laughed a little at this, and Tara joined her. 

“It’s true,” Tara said. “And when he said ‘God,’ I thought ‘Goddess.’ Soon, instead of thinking about prayers and redemption and covenants, I was thinking about ritual and magic.” 

“Did you ever tell anybody?” 

“No, of course not. But it just seemed so right to me. And then I found out there were people who also believed what I believed in secret. And I had a name for what I was.” 

The two witches turned back to the fire, then, watching the embers slowly darken. At last Willow spoke again. 

“Are you sorry things happened the way they did?” 

Tara took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Yes, the way they did. I… I wish it hadn’t been… the way it was. I wish it had been less… confrontational.” 

“And you probably could have done without the nose punching.” 

Tara gave a surprised whoop of laughter. “Actually,” she said, “I’m glad Spike did it. It was a very dramatic demonstration.” 

Willow joined her laughter again. 

“Believe it or not,” Tara said, “I kind of envy Spike.” 

Willow blinked at her lover in surprise. “You do?” 

“Yeah,” Tara said. “He can say exactly what’s on his mind, because he really doesn’t care what people think. He’s like a trickster god. I mean, Buffy stood up to my family. You all did, really. But it took the soulless dead guy to tell my dad he knew what was really happening.” 

“True,” Willow said. “But Buffy was ready to unleash that Slayer action if she had to.” 

“That was the best,” Tara said. “I never felt so safe. So protected. Like I was part of her tribe.” 

Willow put her arms around Tara and snuggled her head against the other girl’s shoulder. “I like that. We’re the Slayer’s tribe.” 

The Yule log was falling to ashes, now, and Willow pulled Tara even closer. “What happens now?” she asked. 

“We visualize the coming warmer days,” Tara said, “and visualize our hopes and desires for the future.” 

“Mmm,” Willow said. “I have all my desires.” 

“You don’t want to make dean’s list?” Tara said. 

“Too much pressure.” 

“Fewer evil things in the future?” 

“Now that would be boring,” Willow said. 

“Not even a shiny red bicycle?” Tara insisted. 

“Probably just skin my knees,” Willow said dreamily. 

“I guess you’ll have to settle for what you’ve got, then.” 

“I have all I’ll ever want,” Willow said, and she kissed Tara gently. 

“So do I,” Tara said.


	2. Santa Baby: Gunn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on “Santa Baby”: The quoted song, “Christmas in L.A.,” Is by W. Wolfe, one of the Cross and Stake regulars.   
> It’s on wwolfe’s solo album, California Deluxe.   
> Suggested Soundtrack (other than that tune)- A Very Special Christmas, vol. 1 (Various Artists)

**5:56 p.m., Dec. 24th, 2000**

_When Christmas rolls around, I get lots of cards  
With snow on the roofs and reindeer in the yards  
I send back my own with a Santa wearing shades  
In a hot pink Camaro by Pacific Palisades  
From the skaters down in Venice to the surfers on the sand  
And the shoppers on Rodeo and the homeless down on Grand  
And the homies up on Adams and the cops and the mayor  
And the girls out in the Valley and the stars up in Bel Air  
It’s Christmas in L.A.  
Put away your snowshoes, put away your sleigh  
Walk around in shorts and a T-shirt all day  
It’s Christmas in L.A.  
Yeah, it’s Christmas in L.A.  
-Christmas in L.A. (W. Wolfe) _

Gunn stood on the side of the hook and ladder truck as it slowly wound its way through the poorest neighborhoods of Los Angeles, sirens blaring. 

It was always the intention of the organizers of the fire department’s annual toy giveaway to be done their rounds well before dusk, but when you were delivering bags of toys from a fire truck by way of a volunteer dressed as Santa Claus on Christmas Eve, things tended to get a bit behind schedule. And whenever you had crowds of unsupervised kids outside after dark, you had a vampire problem. 

Which is where Gunn and his people came in. Quite a few of them already had connections at the churches and community centers that were the distribution points for the gifts, so it was easy for them to latch onto the procession and keep an eye out for bloodsuckers. Gunn himself had climbed onto the truck to stay above the crowd and watch both the children and his own soldiers. 

So far, things had been pretty quiet, and he hoped they stayed that way. They were at their last stop now, St. Claudius Church, and the Gunn was on his way to a holiday get-together at Angel Investigations, at Cordelia’s request. 

He shook his head at the absurdity of that situation. The girl with the visions insisting the vampire hunter share Christmas cheer with the stuffy Brit and the half-crazy vampire with a soul. He hadn’t even attempted to work that one through his mind. 

“Quite a turnout,” said a voice above him, startling him out of his thoughts. Gunn looked up to see an older gentleman, his leathery skin the color of Brazil-nut shells. 

“Yes, it is,” Gunn said. 

“It’s always a blessing to see such generosity,” the man said. 

Gunn shook his head. “All due respect, sir,” he said, “these kids need more than toys one day a year.” 

The man gave a gentle chuckle. “And I suppose a baby needs myrrh.” 

Gunn looked up, confused. “Sir?” 

The fire engine came to a halt in front of the church. “let’s help get these toys unpacked, son,” the man said. “Then we’ll talk.” 

Two priests, five nuns, and several volunteers directed the firemen down to the church’s all-purpose room, where perhaps fifty children, mostly Hispanic, were waiting. When Santa entered the room with his sack of toys they nearly lost control, jumping up and down and shrieking with joy. 

The nuns took charge, arranging the kids in a semblance of order and handing out the packages. Gunn passed by several of the volunteers and one of the priests after assuring himself the area was clear, and each greeted him with a quiet but heartfelt “bless you.” 

The man he’d spoken to earlier caught up with him outside the entrance to the sanctuary. “Come with me,” he said, pushing open one of the heavy wooden doors. 

Gunn hesitated. “I have someplace to be,” he said. 

“It won’t take long,” the man said. “And it could be very important to you, Charles.” 

“How did..?” But the man had already entered the church. 

Cursing under his breath, Gunn followed him. 

The sanctuary was not quite empty, and Gunn choked back the impulse to shout at the older man. “How did you…” he began again when he caught up. 

“There are many gifts we give the world,” the man said, interrupting him. “Material things, of course, but that is the least of all. We must reach out to the world. We must give our minds, our talents, our spirits.” 

Gunn sighed and crossed his arms. 

“You have a different opinion?” the man asked him. 

“These kids need families,” Gunn said. “They need good educations and opportunities. They’re not going to get that from a bunch of toys.” 

The man didn’t answer right away, instead stepping over to where the votive candles glowed in their red glass holders. “Is that all you see? Toys?” 

“What else would I see?” Gunn said. 

The man crossed to where a painted plaster crèche scene was displayed on a platform near the altar, and Gunn followed. The man reached out and picked up one of the Magi figures, the one whose face and hands were painted dark brown, the one said in legend to have come from the Ethiopian lands. 

“Gifts have meaning beyond their function,” the man said. “When the Magi came to the infant Christ they brought gold, frankincense, and myrrh.” 

Gunn shook his head. “So?” 

“These gifts had meanings. Gold as a symbol of His power, because kings are crowned with gold. Incense, used by priests to sanctify holy places, to show He would be a leader of the faith.” 

Gunn didn’t speak. He was curious now to see where this was going. 

The man replaced the figure carefully in the crèche. “And myrrh. A balm used to prepare the dead for burial. Brought to an infant.” He turned to Gunn, and the young warrior felt suddenly small and humble. 

“The gifts these children received tonight were more than mere toys, Charles. They were the tangible expression of a world that’s about more than keeping them down. They are a tiny bit of proof that there are people who don’t know anything about these children other than they are children and they are in want, yet these strangers want to give them gifts, something they might otherwise never hope for.” 

Gunn looked steadily at the man. There was something ancient and otherworldly reflected in his face. “You have many gifts to give,” the man said, “and what you have will be given again unto the world.” 

Gunn lowered his eyes. 

“Be generous with your gifts,” the man said. “You never know who you’re giving them to, and how they’ll be passed on. Just as I didn’t know when I gave myrrh to that child.” 

Gunn’s head shot up at these words, but he was standing alone before the crèche. He sank down into the pew, his legs suddenly weak as water. 

“Gunn,” a voice shouted from the doorway, and the young vampire hunter turned to see one of his men, Chain, waiting for him. 

“We’re ready to go,” Chain said. “You coming?” 

Gunn took one last look at the plaster crèche, in particular the dark Magi with the solemn and wise expression, then got to his feet. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m ready.”


	3. How Lovely Are Thy Branches: Xander and Anya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Soundtrack- A Charlie Brown Christmas, by the Vince Guaraldi Trio .

**8:17 p.m., Dec. 22nd, 2000**

_Christmastime is here,  
Happiness and cheer,  
Time for all that children call  
Their favorite time of year.  
Snowflakes in the air,  
Carols everywhere,  
Olden times and ancient rhymes  
Of love and dreams to share.  
Sleighbells in the air,  
Beauty everywhere,  
Yuletide by the fireside  
And joyful memories there.  
Christmastime is here,  
Families drawing near,  
O that we could always see  
Such spirit through the year. _

“So what are we watching tonight?” Anya asked as Xander put the bowl of popcorn on the living room coffe table and picked up the VCR remote. 

“A Christmas classic,” Xander said. 

Anya rolled her eyes. “Not that stupid movie about that kid wanting a BB gun again?” 

“First of all,” Xander said, “that happens to be great movie. Second of all, no, we’re not.” 

The tape started and the gentle notes of a piano began to play. 

“A cartoon?” Anya said. “A Christmas cartoon? Really, Xander.” 

“Just watch it, Anya,” Xander said with a sigh. “Please? For me?” 

Anya looked at her boyfriend out of the corner of her eye. “Oh. All right.” 

“Thank you.” 

Anya rested her chin against her hand and managed not to comment for nearly thirty seconds. “Is that supposed to be a dog ice skating?” 

“Yes.” 

“That’s just ridiculous. Dogs don’t have the motor co-ordination…”

“It’s a very special dog,” Xander said evenly. “And it’s a cartoon.” 

Anya went back to watching. On the screen a black-haired cartoon girl explained December was too early to catch snowflakes, she always waited until January, and Anya gave a little chuckle. 

“Now what?” the ex-demon said a moment later. “Isn’t she supposed to be a little girl? How can she have a psychiatrist’s license?” 

“It’s just a joke,” Xander explained. 

“I’m not sure I get it,” Anya said. “And now look at that! The ice-skating dog is using a hammer.” 

“He has to. How else can he expect to win the neighborhood house decorating contest?” 

Anya gave an exasperated sigh. Now a blonde little girl was dictating her letter to Santa Claus. When she suggested he bring her tens and twenties Anya nodded in agreement. 

The scene then switched to a dance number accompanied by enthusiastic jazz music. 

“Watch this,” Xander said, getting to his feet. He held his arms straight at his sides, turned his face up with a delighted grin, and began pumping his feet like mad. 

Anya stared, trying to comprehend the latest bizarre human ritual. 

“It’s the Snoopy dance,” Xander exclaimed when she gave no reaction. 

Anya blinked, still too confused by the boy’s behavior to comment. 

“The dog,” he said. “His name is Snoopy. Watch when he dances.” 

Anya turned back to the TV, and Xander slumped beside her, suddenly depressed to realize his girlfriend didn’t have the memory of yearly Christmas specials in common with, well, everyone, but especially him. 

Charlie Brown and Linus were looking at trees, now. Xander looked around his own still-Spartan apartment and realized he had yet to purchase one. He waited uneasily for Anya to comment, but she didn’t. 

Xander’s heart sank. She hates it, he thought. My happiest Christmas memory, and she thinks it’s stupid. 

“They shouldn’t be so mean to him,” she said suddenly, startling Xander out of his mood. 

On screen, the peanuts gang was laughing loud and long at Charlie Brown’s pathetic twig. “What?” Xander said. 

“I mean, they railroaded him into directing their little play,” Anya said, “and then they don’t even listen to him. He’s just trying his best.” 

Oh, wow, Xander thought. She’s actually identifying with Charlie Brown. She’s getting it. He held his breath, afraid of breaking the moment’s spell. 

Charlie Brown hung a mirrored ball on his tiny tree, and with a discordant jumble of notes on the soundtrack’s piano, it bent nearly double. “I’ve killed it,” the cartoon boy exclaimed, his voice thick with anguish. 

Beside him, Xander heard Anya gasp. It took all his control not to put an arm around her shoulders and re-assure her all would be well. 

“That poor little boy,” she said softly, as Charlie Brown ran off wailing. 

Now Linus was wrapping his beloved blanket around the tree, and the rest of the children lavished it with decorations and love. Magically, the tree blossomed, transformed. 

As the strains of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” echoed through his apartment, Anya turned to Xander with tears in her eyes. 

Man, he thought, the Grinch cartoon is gonna kill her. 

“Rewind it,” Anya said. “I want to see you do the Swoopy dance again.” 

“Snoopy,” Xander corrected her gently, crossing the room to his stereo. “And I don’t have to rewind the tape, because I have the music on CD.” He extracted the disc and slipped it in the player, selecting track four. 

The sound of Vince Guaraldi’s energetic piano filled the apartment as “Linus and Lucy” began to play. Xander held out his hand to Anya. 

The girl stood and joined him as once again the boy began dancing frenetically around the living room. Uncertainly, she raised her arms in an arc and bounced from one foot to the other, bobbing her head left and right in imitation of the cartoon girl in the purple dress. 

“That’s it,” Xander shouted. “You’re doing it!” 

Bolstered by his enthusiasm, Anya loosened up and the two danced wildly around the apartment until the song ended, and they collapsed, breathless. 

And Xander started the song again.


	4. That Mourns in Lonely Exile Here: Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this story prior to this past Tuesday’s episode, so it’s set out of time with the series. Please assume all the Darla problems are of the past sometime before Christmas. Or never happened. Or this is the Bizzaro World. I’m sorry, it’s all just too disturbing. A perfectly nice Christmas fic takes a beating from totally unexpected plot developments. I’m going to go lie down with a cold compress now. Also, everything in italics is a flashback, assuming the HTML coding works.  
> Suggested Soundtrack: Bells of Dublin, by The Chieftains.

**8:12 p.m., Dec. 24th, 2000 ******

********

Angel padded quietly through the Hyperion’s lobby, glancing warily as he went at the large Christmas tree his employees had insisted on erecting in what was now the front office of Angel Investigations. He knew the tree wasn’t technically a religious icon, and Cordy and Wesley had studiously avoided Christian imagery of any kind, sticking instead to simple shiny ball and gold ribbons, but still, its presence made him nervous. 

Like everything else, it had been the topic of heated discussion between the two. 

_“I say we go with a tasteful two-tone color scheme,” Cordy had declared. “White lights, gold ornaments. Very classy.”_

_“Sure,” Wesley had retorted. “If by classy you mean sterile and impersonal.”_

_“That kind of tree is perfectly elegant.”_

_“It’s perfectly undistinguished, is what. Every office in town has a tree that looks exactly like that. I think Martha Stewart clones them herself.”_

Neither one had asked his opinion, of course. They never did, any more. Finally, they had compromised on white lights and plain ribbons with multi-colored balls. 

Now it sat, prominently displayed, forcing him to walk past it several times a day. 

_“Don’t you want to help us decorate, Angel,” Cordelia had asked as she tied the gold ribbon into bows at the end of every branch._

_Angel glanced up from the desk. “No, thanks,” he said. “I don’t really… celebrate.”_

_“I guess not,” she said. “The whole vampire thing. Not big on the gift-giving.”_

_“No, we’re not,” Angel said, and Wesley had glanced up from his own tree-trimming duties to give his employer a cold look._

_Angel knew exactly what was on the Englishman’s mind, the ex-Watcher who had read all of Angel’s profane history._

_Knew Wesley was imagining, in vivid detail, Angelus’s infamous Christmas feasts for his “family,” featuring beautiful infants in white gowns and angel’s wings, their skin dusted with gold powder, arranged in red baskets beneath the tree._

_And Angel had returned Wesley’s gaze with one of his own, one which silently implored that Cordelia remain innocent of these atrocities._

_And the girl had changed the subject to the food for the office party, unaware of the unspoken exchange which had gone on around her._

The two were out fetching food from the gourmet shop now, and Angel was restless, pacing his home like a caged panther. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t like spending down-time with his employees; he did. He even liked some of the typically human modes of relaxation they favored, after a fashion. But an office Christmas party… even to Angel it smacked of forced merriment. 

The two returned then, Wesley carrying a box-full of smaller food containers, Cordelia with a shopping bag of packages. 

“This is so fun,” Cordy said, unpacking the food and arranging it on the counter and desks. “Our first office party.”

“Which, of course, had been why Angel agreed. 

Gunn arrived just as the others had placed the last of the presents beneath the tree. He carried a sack of his own, and it joined the other parcels. He regarded the spread dubiously. 

“Tell me if there’s anything here I can pronounce,” he said. 

Cordelia stalked over to the food. “Tandoori Chicken, Porcini Farfalle, Arugula Salad, Avocado-Tahini with Pita, and Pfeffernusse,” she said, pointing to each dish in turn. 

“I didn’t think so,” Gunn said as he scooped some chicken wings onto his plate. Cordelia gave a smirk which he returned. 

Angel watched as Wesley piled his plate high, devouring the chicken and pasta almost before he sat down, and immediately serving himself seconds. The vampire thought, not for the first time, that the young ex-Watcher ate like a man living close to starvation. 

He had asked Wesley several times if his pay was sufficient, trying, in an oblique way, to determine the man’s expenses and see they were met. But now that they had worked together closely for so many months, Angel theorized that Wesley simply didn’t have an appetite if he had to eat alone. It was only when they ate together, when Angel cooked a late-night breakfast or Cordelia ordered pizza, that his hunger overcame him. 

Charles Gunn, on the other hand, needed no such assembly around him to know his place in the world. He had his people, his gang of vampire hunters, but he was definitely in charge. Angel was constantly impressed that one so young could be so fully self-possessed, and hoped his influence would rub off on some of his more overly-prudent employees. 

They all ate heartily, except for Angel, who still felt uncomfortable drinking blood in front of his human friends, but he had fed earlier, and now got by with a few sips of tea. 

"So," Cordelia said when everyone was done. "Shall we exchange gifts?"

She went to the tree and pulled out three packages in shiny paper. "First for you, Charles," she said, passing the young man a large box. "Merry Christmas."

Gunn took the gift from her, a little surprised by its weight, and tore it open. Inside was a large battle axe, and the vampire-killer grinned. "This the same one you whacked my boy with?" he said.

"No, it's new," Cordy said. "I ordered it from one of Angel's catalogs." She passed a much smaller box to Wesley. "You next."

The ex-Watcher smiled gratefully and ripped off the wrapping. It was a small collection of CD-ROMs. "Ten great word puzzles," Wesley read aloud. "Crossword deluxe. Risk for Mac O/S. Encarta 2001." Wes was smiling more broadly now. "Thank you, Cordelia. I'm sure I'll enjoy these very much."

"And last but not least," Cordy said, handing a box to Angel.

The vampire carefully undid the paper and opened the box. Inside was a selection of pastels, paints, and art paper. "Cordelia," Angel said. "This is so... generous."

"Use it for painting something nice, for a change," Cordy told him.

"I'll go next," Wesley said quickly, fetching his packages. He passed them to his co-workers. "You may as well open them all at once..." he said uncertainly, and the other three tore into the plainly-wrapped boxes. Out of each came a small stone disk, suspended from a thin leather cord.

"Um... it's nice," Cordelia said, turning it over in her hands.

"What is it?" Gunn asked.

But it was Angel who answered. "It's a Hawkestone," he said, his voice hushed with something like reverence. "A powerful protective charm." He looked up at the young Englishman, whose face was now set with pride. "You can't buy these, Wesley," Angel said. "You can only win them in exchange for a duty."

"Yes," Wesley agreed. "I know."

"What did you do?" Cordelia asked, her own voice full of awe.

Wesley lowered his eyes. "Now, that's between the mage in question and myself," he said. "But it was a service I was quite happy to perform. And you can also thank our green friend at Caritas for putting me in touch with said mage in the first place."

Angel allowed himself a knowing smirk. "What did you sing?"

Wesley flushed slightly, his eyes still down. "I sang a tune from the repertoire of the illustrious Ricky Martin." Cordelia and Gunn began to laugh, and he quickly added, "and that's all I'm going to say."

"Was it 'She Bangs?'" Cordy persisted.

"No, no," Gunn said, "'Living la Vida Loca.'"

"I've got it," Cordelia squealed. "'Shake Your Bon-Bon!'"

Wesley did look up at that, blushing furiously now. "I never..."

"It's a wonderful gift," Angel said over his employees' general hilarity. "You've outdone yourself, Wesley."

The Englishman gave a small, slightly embarrassed smile. "I hope you never have use of them," he said, "but just in case. We can use all the protection we can get in our line of work."

"You said it," Gunn agreed.

"Thank you, Wesley," Cordelia said, and she leaned across to kiss him on the cheek.

"Okay," Gunn said, rising and retrieving his sack. "This was sort of a last-minute thing for me, so excuse the lack of wrapping." He dipped in and drew out a small box which he handed to Cordy.

She opened it with a small squeal of delight and held it up. Nestled within was a pair of earrings shaped like stars. "They're adorable," she declared, and Gunn grinned.

"You next," he said to Wesley, and tossed a small bundle of cloth across to the Englishman's hands.

Wesley unfolded it and held it up. "A Dodger's jersey?"

"Yep," Gunn said. "You been an Angeleno for a year now. About time you started looking like one."

A slow smile crept across Wesley's face. "I guess you're right," he said. "Thank you."

"Now, you," Gunn said, turning to Angel. "You are impossible to shop for."

"I don't need..." Angel began, but Gunn stopped him with a raised hand.

"Well, I'm hoping it will really be for all of us," Gunn said. "Unless you’re having a really bad week." And he lifted out a bottle from the sack.

Angel took it and gave an almost imperceptible nod of approval. "Bushmill's," he said. "A very good whiskey."

"I thought I remembered hearing you were Irish originally," Gunn said. 

Angel smiled wryly. "Still am," he said, then looked up at his employees. "Come with me," he said, getting to his feet.

"Where are we going?" Cordelia asked.

"Gunn's right," Angel said. "We need to share this, but not here."

"Is something wrong?" asked Wesley.

"No," Angel said. "It's just... we work here. And if we're going to share a drink, I want to do it as friends, not co-workers." He led the three up the stairs and down the hall, past his suite, to the room next door.

Inside, the walls were lined with shelves scavenged from throughout the hotel, and there were a number of odd chairs, tables, and a roll-top desk. Stacked on the shelves were the few reference books Angel had managed to salvage from the wreckage of his old apartment, along with some new additions. There was also a strange collection of items left behind when the hotel was abandoned--- china plates and teacups, a porcelain vase, a carnival-glass lamp, a silver cigarette case, four small inlayed wooden boxes, a pair of jade candlesticks, a brass giraffe, and, oddly, a child's toy dump truck.

The lighting was subdued, the walls hung with dark curtains, and an oriental rug was spread over the plain industrial carpeting. Wesley stopped in the doorway.

"Angel," he said uncertainly. "When did you do all this?"

"After I had that time where I slept so much," the vampire said, "I spent a lot of time not sleeping." He shook his head. "It's not important."

He rolled back the top of the desk, revealing three packages in white paper. He picked up the smallest and handed it to Gunn. The young man opened it to find one of Angel's business cards. He raised an eyebrow in Angel's direction.

"I've written a note to the maitre d' at the Blue Tree on the back," Angel said. "Tomorrow I've arranged for your entire outfit to have Christmas dinner there."

Gunn, for once, was speechless. "Angel... this must have..."

"I want to," Angel said. "I remember what it's like to have family to take care of." He picked up the next box and placed it on Wesley's lap. "You next."

The ex-Watcher undid the wrapping to find four books in a neat stack. His brow knotted in momentary confusion. "Aren't these children's..."

"Well, sort of," Angel said. "I read them this summer and liked them a lot. I thought you could identify, actually. The combination of British boarding school and magic training, you know."

Wesley smiled gratefully. "Thank you, Angel," he said softly.

"Okay, me next," Cordelia said, bouncing lightly in her seat.

Angel gave the girl a fond smile and handed her the last box. "Careful," he said. "It's very heavy."

"Boy, you're not kidding," she said. "This had better be lots and lots of jewelry."

"Well, not exactly..."

She pulled out what looked like a bundle of small-link chain. "What is it?"

"Here," Angel said, taking it from her hands and straightening it out. "It's a ring-mail shirt. For protection."

Cordelia looked at him doubtfully, and Angel took a deep breath. "I don't say this often," he said, "but I worry about you." He looked around the room. "All of you. I just want to keep you safe."

Cordelia rose and took the ring-mail from him, then stood on tiptoe to kiss him gently on the cheek. "And I don't say this often, or, ever, really," she said, "but it's nice having you look out for me."

Angel touched his face where she'd kissed him. "Thanks," he said.

"Just don't, you know, get too happy about it," she said.

Wesley stood and crossed to the shelves, taking down four mismatched cups. "Let's have that toast now," he said.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Epilogue:

Angel was watching Wesley with some amusement. He had never seen the Englishman drunk before and found the combination of his heightened insecurity and sudden inability to pronounce words correctly strangely endearing.

"It's too early, of courshe, to discuss matri... matrim... marriage with Miss Brishe," Wesley slurred, "but I have to consh... consider what sort of life I'd be asking her to live, what with my line of work and all. I mean, the conshtant danger, the ever... ever-present threat of death..." He trailed off, his head nodding, and Angel wondered if he should just steer him towards a guest room or offer to drive him home.

Gunn had left several hours before to return to his own people, and Cordelia was curled in an overstuffed armchair, asleep.

Angel reflected how his personal history seemed to be repeating itself. Here he was, again responsible for his own assembled "family," though thankfully under better circumstances than in the past.

Wesley came back awake with a small snort and peered around the room for a moment in confusion. "Oh, Anshel," he said. "Forgive me. I seem to have dozed off." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm feeling a bit dizzy. Maybe I should just go to one of the guest rooms..." He climbed unsteadily to his feet and Angel rose and took his arm, guiding him out into the hall and down a few doors. Inside was a double bed, and the mortal collapsed into it, out cold. Angel pulled the blankets up around him, then returned to the study.

"Cordelia," he said gently, shaking the girl's shoulder.

She blinked up at him, her eyes not quite focusing.

"Time for bed," he told her, scooping her easily up into his arms and carrying her to the room next to Wesley's. He laid her carefully on the bed, draping the coverlet over her.

“Thank you,” she murmured, half-asleep. “Merry Christmas, Angel.” 

The vampire smiled in the darkness. “You, too,” he said. 

She replied with a small sigh of contentment, and he closed the door, returning to his own suite. 

He flicked on the light and glanced at the wall clock in the kitchenette; almost three a.m. He rubbed his eyes. Christmas already. He’d make a nice brunch for Cordelia and Wesley when they woke up, he thought, and then they’d go out for dinner later. Maybe join Gunn’s people. 

He turned towards his bed and stopped short. 

Placed just next to his pillow was a gift wrapped in gold paper. 

Angel walked over to the bed, confused. Had one of his employees decided to give him something privately? he wondered. He picked up the small card tucked underneath the bow. 

Written in a small, neat script was a single word. The handwriting was familiar to Angel, but his mind couldn’t quite grab it. It fluttered at the edge, an itch he couldn’t quite reach. 

He opened the box and found a glass globe. He lifted it out and saw the figure of an angel within. But this was no simpering girl in a white gown. This was a warrior-angel, armor-clad, wings spread wide, sword-bearing arm raised high. 

Angel read the card again, the single word stark against the cream-colored paper: Remember. 

Angel rotated the gift in his hand. 

Inside the sphere, the snow began to fall.


	5. Quot Estis in Convivio: Buffy and Giles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this story prior to this past Tuesday’s episode, so it’s set out of time with the series, but luckily not as much as yesterday’s. The quote is from “The Boar’s Head Carol” (a song which is basically an ode to gluttony) and means “To All Our Gathered Company.” Also, everything in italics is a flashback. And on a personal note, I just want to wish everyone the happiest of holidays, and many blessings and happiness in the New Year.  
> Suggested Soundtrack: The Christmas Attic, by The Trans-Siberian Orchestra.

**12:19 p.m., Dec. 25th, 2000**

_On the road the frost is glistening  
People stream from midnight Mass  
Friendly candles glow in windows  
Strangers greet you as you pass  
Come now to the laden table  
Ham and goose and pints of beer  
Pass the whiskey round in tumblers  
Christmas comes but once a year  
-“Christmas Comes But Once a Year” (Amer. Trad.) _

"Hi, Giles," Buffy said, holding the door open for her watcher. 

"Merry Christmas," Giles answered as he entered. "How's everything going?"

"Pretty well," Buffy told him, leading the way into the living room. Dawn was lounging in front of the TV, watching "A Muppet Christmas Carol." 

"Hey, Mr. Giles," she said, giving a distracted wave.

"Hello, Dawn. Merry Christmas."

"Dinner should be ready in about an hour," Buffy said. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

"I'll take some eggnog," Dawn said. 

"I was speaking to our guest," Buffy told her.

"Eggnog sounds very nice," Giles said, taking off his jacket. "Can I help you with anything?"

"No, everything's under control," Buffy said, walking to the kitchen.

Giles followed behind. "And how is your mother?"

"Tired," Buffy said. "She's upstairs resting now. But she's doing better."

"I'm glad to hear it," Giles said. "I've been rather worried, what with everything else..." He lowered his voice. "And how is Dawn holding up through all this?"

"She's okay," Buffy said. "Now that we know Mom's going to get better instead of worse. She really has been a big help with all the holiday things. Totally a little trooper."

_"Watcha' reading?" Dawn asked, coming into the kitchen to find Buffy with a stack of books and a notepad._

_"The Joy of Cooking."_

_Dawn's brow furrowed in confusion. "Is that for a class?"_

_"No, it's for Christmas dinner," Buffy said. "I invited Giles over. How does a nice roast beef and baked potatoes sound? Maybe some frozen peas and carrots on the side?"_

_Dawn slid into a chair beside her sister, and picked up one of the other books, "Meals in Thirty Minutes."_

_"I thought we were supposed to have turkey on Christmas," she said._

_"I'm looking for something easy," Buffy said. "Something I can just shove in the oven and ignore till it's done."_

_"You made turkey last Thanksgiving," Dawn pointed out._

_"Yes, and we all learned a little lesson from that, didn't we," Buffy said. "If this ends up being a Buffy Christmas, I don't want to be worrying about anything burning."_

"That's a beautiful tree," Giles remarked, returning to the living room.

"I decorated it," Dawn said. "Well, after Xander helped us put on the lights."

"Is he coming for dinner?" Giles asked.

"I think he and Anya are spending time together," Buffy said. "She said something about seeing enough of us the rest of the time." 

Dawn rolled her eyes. 

"How much time to you have off from school, Dawn?" Giles asked.

"I go back January second," the younger girl said. "But I'm thinking of taking some time off to help Mom out while she gets better."

"I don't think you need to skip school to help Mom watch video rentals," Buffy said.

Dawn made a small pout. "You were just saying what a big help I've been."

_Buffy wrestled the shopping cart up the vegetable aisle of the supermarket, trying to avoid the bins of apples and onions strewn about like land mines. The front wheel was permanently misaligned, and Buffy wondered if it would be an abuse of her slayer powers to bend the wretched thing into so much scrap metal._

_She carefully picked through the potato display, choosing four large baking ones and checking them off her list. Dawn was a short way off, selecting some tangerines and putting them in a bag._

_"Dawn," Buffy called. "What are you getting tangerines for?"_

_"To put in the stockings," Dawn said. "You know, down in the toe."_

_Buffy felt a small pang at that. She'd almost forgotten; she and Dawn would have to be Santa this year._

_The two sisters turned into the canned foods aisle, Buffy searching for gravy. Dawn poked through the soup cans, trying to keep herself entertained through this exercise. "Look at this," she said, holding up a can of cream of mushroom. "This has a recipe on the back for green bean casserole. It doesn't look that hard."_

_Buffy pursed her lips, about to voice some protest about this being an easy meal._

_"I'll make it," Dawn pressed._

_"Give it here," Buffy said._

Joyce entered the dining room, still in her pajamas and housecoat, just as the girls were setting the table. She wore a soft, floppy velvet hat, a Christmas gift from Dawn, to hide her still-healing scalp. Dawn had explained when her mother had opened it that she'd gotten it from one of the hospital volunteers, who made them specifically for cancer patients, and Buffy had to admit, even bearing that in mind, it was flattering in a funky, stylish way.

"Can I do anything to help," Joyce asked.

"Nope," Buffy said. "Everything's way under control."

Dawn put down her stack of plates and wrapped her arms around her mother's waist. Joyce stroked her daughter's long hair, and Dawn looked up at her.

"Do you want something to drink?" she said. "Mr. Giles is having eggnog in the living room."

"I think I just want a little orange juice," Joyce said. She gave a pronounced sniff. "Dinner smells really wonderful. It must have taken you forever."

"Oh, days, anyway," Buffy said.

_"Can we make Victory Cookies?"_

_Buffy looked up from where she was putting the fruits and vegetables in the refrigerator's crisper. "What?"_

_"You know... Grandma's Victory Cookies," Dawn said, and Buffy remembered._

_Somewhere in her mother's kitchen cabinets was a binder with carefully preserved magazine pages from McCall's December 1943 issue. They had first been cut out by their grandmother, then a girl herself. The recipes on them had been developed with wartime shortages in mind, with numerous versions of each recipe depending on the availability of sugar or eggs._

_After the war, she had kept them as a curiosity, and as time went on, a conversation piece. Joyce told how she and her friends in the liberated 70s had laughed at the language around the recipes, like "a good hostess can serve these Victory Stars with pride, even to her husband's boss."_

_Then, when Grandma had passed away, her daughter found the faded pages, seeing her own mother's handwritten comments in the margins, from childish notes like "these are good" to the grown woman's "subst. dates for raisins" and "use 3/4 cup veg. oil inst. of lard."_

_Joyce had put the pages in plastic folders, and brought them down every Christmas to whip up a batch or two of Victory Stars or Oatmeal Victory Delights._

“Allow me,” Giles said, taking the carving knife and fork from Buffy and quickly slicing the roast beef. 

Buffy moved to the other serving dishes, spooning vegetables out for her mother before passing them on to Dawn. 

“Shall we pray?” Dawn asked softly. 

“Let me,” Joyce said, reaching for her daughters’ hands. They each held hers, then took Giles’s hands to complete the circle around the table. 

“I am so thankful that I’ve been blessed with two strong daughters and good friends to help me through this crisis,” Joyce said. “May the coming year bring us more happiness and good fortune.” 

“And thank you for making Mom well,” Dawn added. 

“Amen,” Buffy said. 

After the meal was over and the dishes cleared, Giles met Buffy in the kitchen. “It’s so strange,” he said softly, so that Joyce and Dawn, looking through family pictures in the living room, wouldn’t overhear. “I remember the past few years with Dawn in our lives so vividly, and yet intellectually I know this is her first Christmas.” 

“I know,” Buffy said. “I’ve spent the past week nostalgic for family traditions that don’t really exist.” She set the last of the silverware in the drainboard to dry. “I try not to think about it too much. I want to make it good for her.” 

“It’s an important thing you’re doing, Buffy,” Giles told her. “And I believe the rewards will be worth all the challenges.” 

Buffy glanced through to where Dawn was curled on the couch beside her mother, the girl’s dark head resting against Joyce’s shoulder. 

“I know it’s worth it,” she said. 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Epilogue:

Buffy slowly climbed the stairs to her room. She was tired, but as Xander would say, it was a good tired. She was glad Giles had come for dinner; he knew so many stories to keep them all entertained, he and Joyce were of a common era and could reminisce about the past, and he and Dawn even seemed to be warming up to one another. 

Her mother had gone to bed early, still tiring quickly during her recovery period, and Dawn and Buffy had stayed up with Giles, telling stories of childhood Christmases. Dawn had even convinced the normally reserved Watcher to sing a few traditional carols the two Americans were unfamiliar with. 

Buffy continued to talk shop with Giles for a bit after Dawn went to bed, and finally he’d begged off, as well. The Slayer promised to catch up with him at the Magic Box the next day, and the two bid each other Merry Christmas and good night. 

Buffy opened her bedroom door and, without turning on the light, changed into her pajamas and crawled into bed. 

Rolling onto her side, she slid one hand beneath her pillow and felt something strange. She sat up and pulled it out, flicking on her nightstand light.

It was a package, only a little larger than her hand, wrapped in sparkly blue paper. Carefully she undid the wrapping. 

Inside was a small velvet box in deep blue, stitched with pale golden thread. Buffy opened the box to find a cobalt crystal bottle filled with perfume. 

She held it up to the light, examining the tiny writing on the label. “Night Adores Her,” it read, and below that, even smaller, “Branch & Sons, Perfumers, London.” She opened the stopper and sniffed at it, gingerly. 

If asked to describe the aroma she’d have called it “mysterious,” or maybe “exotic.” There was the cool scent of night-blooming flowers, and below that, teasing her nose, a sensuous musk. It was oddly evocative of secret desires, this perfume. She touched some to her wrists and throat, then replaced the stopper, looking it over again, wondering who could have left it for her. 

Outside, on the street below, a creature of the night, his own senses hundreds of times sharper than any human’s, even one as formidable as the Slayer, caught the scent as it drifted out the open window and caught on the breeze. 

_“What do you think?” the chemist said, his voice barely audible for his fear._

_The vampire, his face a twisted mockery of humanity, bared his fangs in the human’s direction, and lifted the glass jar to his face. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep, unneeded breath which he let out with a sigh of delight. “You’ve done it,” he said. “You’ve captured her essence.” He took another deep breath. “Yes, my Black Princess. My night-blooming rose.”_

_“Then you won’t…” Thomas Branch couldn’t bring himself to say the words aloud._

_“A genius like you?” the vampire said. “I wouldn’t deprive the world.” His face shifted back to its human visage, settling into smooth, handsome planes. “I daresay this will make generations of your family quite wealthy. One could say you actually owe me, now.”_

He imagined he was touching her throat himself, drawing his sensitive fingertips over her white flesh, burning beneath his cold hand. 

He imagined nuzzling that soft throat, drawing in the scent of “Night Adores Her” mingled with her own particular essence. 

_“Why aren’t you wearing the perfume I bought you, pet?”_

_“That garbage?” Darla snapped. “I made her throw that cheap trash away.”_

_Spike bristled. “Cheap…”_

_“Ridiculous. Bringing her trinkets like she was a weak, mortal girl. It’s embarrassing.”_

_Spike ignored her. “Drusilla…”_

_But the dark vampiress only shrugged. “Grandmama knows best,” she said._

Spike stared a moment longer, until the light snapped off, and he heard the whisper of sheets drawn up over the girl’s body. 

Then he turned, and walked into the darkness.


End file.
